Future Games
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
Summary: Ivanova and Marcus find that Time and the Babylon stations have entwined ther lives more than they ever imagined.
1. Time, Time, Time

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Author's Notes: As always, thank you for taking the time to look at my fic! I'm so glad you bothered. This is the first part of a fairly short (I hope) chapter story taking place in season three. You have two guesses as to what the paring is, and no fair guessing I/M straight off! ^_~ This starts out a little oddly, but I hope you'll bare with me. While watching "A Matter of Honor", it occurred to me that Marcus and Ivanonva shared awfully **knowing** looks for having just met. ^_^

I am still working on "Next Voice". I'm just physically incapable of concentrating on only one story. **(sheepish**)

Having put up with my blabber-- onward, valiant one!

-Meredith

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"Now you were there last night

And oh were you afraid

Of things we'd come upon

While playing future games

But baby it's alright and so have faith

Oh yeah, you invent the future that you want to face."

-Fleetwood Mac, 'Future Games'

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Future Games 1/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

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His memory had betrayed him; in the flesh she was vivid and alive, a low release of single piano notes on the edge of his consciousness.

And still, Marcus could not bring himself believe in her.

The Captain's office on Babylon 5, which could have been any office on any station or ship or planet he'd ever been assigned to. They all blurred and ran together after a while, like one of Hasina's ink-paintings if you hung it up before it had time to dry. They were all gray-scale-- the Captain, Garibaldi, even to a degree Lennier; they hovered on the edge of his thoughts even as he was talking to them, but they would fade away soon enough. He would be reassigned and their faces would reappear in his dreams-- thousands screaming in agony-- but in the waking hours, he would not be able to place them. There was a difference in Delenn, and he found himself somehow relieved he could feel something. Admiration, for she was everything Sinclair had described her to be and more. The strength in her eyes and in her grip that triggered some protective affection in him. From time to time, Hasina's memory seemed to flicker over Delenn's face, some vague reminder in the way she'd held herself and been so unafraid, but they were nothing alike. Amidst their conversations and snatches of words, he was distanced from his body, feeling the person he had once been rattling around in the empty shell of his ribs. He was running on adrenaline and nothing else, a live wire, a sleep-walker holding onto the thought of all the lives at risk on Zargos 7. 

And then---

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Suddenly, he was fifteen again, with his leg trapped under the rocks in the quarry; the sun was going down and he could taste his fear on his tongue. The water, yellow-brown and glinting like the color of a hungry tiger's eyes, rose higher and higher to embrace him. It was her hand that held his firmly, her flesh chill with warmth hiding underneath; it was the flicker of ghosts and emotions on her faces that he focused his mind as they worked together to free his leg. 

She was bright and surreal, clad in the blue of Earth Force, not the black and silver he remembered. Just a glance from her blue eyes, and she seemed to stiffen, a sapphire shadow of recognition eclisping her dark pupils. Then, she was speaking, coarse and matter of fact with just a hint of amusement flickering under her tone.

"Captain, the day something happens on the station and I don't know about it, *that's* when you should worry." A stab of respect and something like pride pierced his confusion, bringing a brief smile to his face. It withered under her covert, suspicious glances-- her hands were clutching each other at the small of her back, knuckles white. He thought, 'she's afraid', and hated himself for being the cause of it. 

"This is Marcus Cole, one of our Rangers," the Captain gestured vaguely, before meeting Marcus' gaze, "Marcus, meet Commander Susan Ivanova, my XO." It was the name his mind ceased upon-- at last, a name!-- folding the syllables over one another so he might conjure it later to examine. Strange how the clamoring voices of his guilt had diminished in her presence, though he could still hear them. They were on his heals, he was running and he wasn't even moving. Speaking with a boldness born of the fear that the colony had already been leveled (again, not again!), he presented his case, returning the Commander's quick, furtive looks in equal number. 

She could not be real! He wanted to reach out, feel the coarse fabric of her uniform under his fingers and know that she had become embodied, that she was not a dream born of his long-ago pain. Time had left her unchanged, though the winter of his almost death was more than a decade behind him. So long he'd waited, convincing himself that she had to be just around the corner, the turn of the season, the year. Now that he was sure there was nothing to believe in save the chaos bleeding over the galaxy, she had appeared. 

He could see in her eyes, in the sculpted line of her back, that she did not believe in him either.

= = = = = = = = = = = = 

Let's say you fall in love-- such a stupid, stupid term. Doesn't say what it means. Let's say it's true and real and hurts so much that there really aren't (and this is the frustrating part) *words* for it. Sometimes you feel like clawing and ripping at the world just to find a way for it all to make sense, but it doesn't, and you carry it around inside you. You either build walls around it, or you tell yourself you don't have faith and keep on loving anyway.

At thirteen, Susan Ivanova met a man she thought was Death, and fell in love. Tumbled into love, was cut, destroyed and rebuilt by it. She walled it away because she couldn't stand to feel anything anymore, and the years only gave her more fodder with which to make bricks. Take the key and lock it up.

She'd forgotten the part of the rhyme where everything fell down.

Death stood beside the Captain, watching her with wide, pale green eyes, and Death called himself Marcus Cole. A Ranger-- we live for the one, die for the one. _You can't be here, _she wanted to say, _you're not real. _He had to leave, had to vanish back into her youth. A thousand nights of her reverent prayers had not returned him to her side, why should he be here now? 

She surprised herself by speaking so promptly and well, but she thought perhaps she was just pretending He wasn't there. His glances were quick and diffuse, like sunlight on her back; but she felt like Briar Rose. Opps, pricked your finger, now a hundred years of sleep. Maybe, when Sleeping Beauty woke up, the real world didn't make sense because she was so used to dreams. 

At the same time (she hated herself for this, couldn't stand that she was thinking like this) she was remembering his tender hands bandaging her wrists, and...

(Don't think about it, don't you dare think about it)

And...

His voice, "*I* love you."

Emphasis on the 'I'.

But everyone Susan loved always left her alone.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = 

He saw her sitting at the bar in the casino, and he could no more have stayed away than he could have defied the laws of gravity. She was perched carefully on a stool, a graceful bird uncertain of her welcome or her ability to stay. Out of uniform, Susan seemed somehow more elemental, but just as dangerous, and her single long braid swayed back and forth like a panther's tail. 

"I hear you'll be staying a while," the commander remarked by way of greeting. She pushed an empty shot-glass towards him, and he pushed it very gently back. "Thought not," she murmured, and he didn't get a chance to ask her what she meant.

"Yes, actually," Marcus leaned heavily on the chipped counter, "seems Delenn is somehow under the impression that I've got my head screwed on straight. Can't imagine where she got that idea."

The brief tilt of a smile, the sound of a 'hmm' a little vodka mixing in the back of her throat. Blue eyes narrowed, became imprisoned behind her thick lashes, and he thought again of her questions on the White Star; interested, careful and skillfully kept from being needy. She was trying to get close enough to figure something out, but she didn't want him to be able to reach for her. "Are you really from Arisia?" she asked, peering through the bent glass of the vodka bottle as if trying to remember some distant dream. 

Somehow, the question didn't seem strange. "Yes, born and raised there," he replied, "closest thing to hell in the living world." Then, cautiously, "Ever been there?"

"No." Not quick, not defensive, just honest. She wasn't lying-- but she *had* been there, he knew. 

"And you? Where are you from?" He finally felt comfortable enough to take the seat beside her. The lines of her brown-red tunic fell about her easily, seemed to shift with her restlessness.

"Russia," her lips drew together in a frown, "but you already knew that."

"I did?" he didn't try to keep the surprise out of his voice-- their relation to each other was a maze, and he was quickly finding he didn't actually mind being lost in it. 

"You were there," her accent seemed to become more pronounced with each downed shot. Briefly, he felt the touch of Susan's mind on the edge of his, and wondered why she didn't scan him. She could have found her way around his blocks easily enough-- she had, after all, taught him how to build them. 'She won't invade my privacy, anyone's privacy,' he thought with admiration. Before, in the long years before meeting her again, he had scolded himself for loving her-- he didn't know her, not really. Now the pieces of the puzzle were just as enchanting as the whole. 

"I was?"

"Damn it, stop repeating everything I say like some stupid parrot!"

He smiled, wide and without meaning to, "Got any crackers?" 

She raised a single, elegant eyebrow, "We need to talk about this--" 

"I should think so!" Marcus let out, feeling an did sense of relief. No dancing around this, no wondering if she had or hadn't been there. 

"Some place *else*," she stressed, and suddenly took his hand. Her fingers were steel under velvet, and he allowed himself to be pulled along limply. "Come with me."

"Look," she said, after the stretch of silence that had blanketed them during the trip to her quarters, "I don't know what you think you're doing here, but--"

"Me?" he sat down heavily on the couch, hands clenched in his lap, "I didn't even know you would be here! I thought you... you were a dream, or something. A ghost." He reached toward her, knowing she was too far away, but wanting to offer the human contact. To his surprise, she moved forward slightly, before her knuckles tightened around the edge of the small end table and she stayed where she was. 

"I almost was a ghost," the reference sent an irrational lance of fear through him. 

She took a deep breath and looked away, "You keep acting like you don't know. What do you want from me?" 

"Nothing," Marcus protested. That wasn't entirely true-- the gut reaction was 'whatever you will give me'. "Why do you think I'm the enemy?"

"Why shouldn't I?!" she spread her arms as if to take in the situation, "It's been fifteen years and you waltz in here looking just the same and playing innocent."

Now he frowned, "I saw *you* over a decade ago."

"Yes," she lowered herself into a small, overstuffed chair, looking for all the world like a warrior and a queen all at once. "In Paris. I was at boarding school in Paris."

"No," he shook his hair quickly, hair going every which way, "on Arisa. I was fifteen."

"I was *thirteen* and it was in Paris!" she brought her hand down swiftly, and it made a rather loud crack in spite of the cushions.

"Is there a Paris, Arisa like there's an Paris, Kentucky?" he smiled weakly.

"This doesn't make any sense," she laughed and it was a sudden sound, like her voice could barely remember how to make it.

"I came here because of Zargos 7," he said earnestly, "but I imagine-- bloody Minbari beliefs have a way of rubbing off on you-- that I was suppose to come here to meet you." He moved his shoulders sheepishly, resisting the urge to sink further into his seat. 

"And you never met me when I was... younger?" she bit down on her lip until it bled, "Never went to Paris?" 

"Never even been to Earth," he laughed at himself. 

"I just..." she trailed off, frustration cutting into the words. Another brush from her psyche, light and sweet. Maybe she didn't even know she was doing it.

"Damn it!" he raked a hand through his hair, "Why don't you just scan me and see if I'm telling the truth! You can get around my blocks any time you want!"

"You *know*!" her voice was thick with accusation, and she somehow managed to recoil without even moving. 

"Of course I know," restless, Marcus began to pace, "You taught me how to make *my* blocks."

"What?" It breathless, a single feathery word. 

"You taught me how to block-- how to fail the Psi tests." Without meaning to, he came to kneel at her side, hands reaching for hers. 

"Watch it," Susan's smooth fingers fluttered away like fleshy butterflies; she cradled them against her neck as if his touch might burn. 

"Sorry," he set his teeth against one another and let his hands come to rest on the arm of the chair, trying to give her space and be close at the same time. 

"This doesn't make any sense," she said again, almost like a chant. Turning her head away, her voice sounded distant, like the echo in a seashell long removed from Earth. "You don't understand, I can't have things in my life not make sense."

"I can't make heads of tails of it either. Alright," he said, feeling either a tightening of his chest or an expansion of his heart. There just wasn't enough room for the feeling. "We can't either one of us make sense of this, yes, no?"

"We can't," she agreed.

"There's things you don't want to tell me, and," he held up a hand, "I respect that." He flashed her a grin, "I also respect the rumors that you throw 'annoyances' out airlocks."

Her glance was almost feline, "You better believe it."

"Is it also true that you threw a telepath out a third story window?"

Her nod was a mere tilt of her chin, very regal, "I maintain that there was an ample pool bellow."

"Right..." he joked, making as if he was about to bolt. In the till air between them, the amity faded as though it had never been. "Anyway," he cleared his throat, "You know I'm a telepath, I know you're a telepath, so we're fairly even on the secrets score, am I right?"

"A old-fashioned Mexican stand-off," Susan quipped.

"Or a Minbari stand off," Marcus returned, "One side surrenders and the other side hasn't got a clue." He paused as if to think, "Actually, we neither of us have a clue, do we?"

"Marcus," she grinned mock-maliciously, "I knew the moment I walked into the Captain's office that you were clueless."

"Touche," he held up a single finger.

Another one of her 'looks', "You were saying?"

"We're never gonna sort this out-- why don't we just pretend we never met before this moment?" 

He stood and waited for her to also rise before holding out his hand. "Marcus Cole, station ranger."

"Commander Ivanova," she gripped his hand tightly, "pleased to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine," he grinned.

"Man," she pressed two fingers to her temple, "and I thought I was good at this denial thing."

"Pardon?"

Her braid swung with the shake of her head, "Never mind."

"Well, then," he stood uncertainly for a moment, "I best be going."

"See you around," she snapped her fingers, smile broad, "Uh, Marcus isn't it?"

"Quite right, Commander." He bowed and swept out the door, and Susan watched the closing panel plunged the room back into semi-darkness. For a moment, she stood with face unguarded, and was safe because there was no one to see it. Slowly, she cradled her left hand and drew back the gathered sleeve of her tunic, tracing the raised scar on her wrist with the tenderness one uses to handle thorns.

She had one to match it on her right hand.

'I love you', he'd said, when she'd been cut and alone and waiting to snap the thread of her life.

She was afraid he still meant it.

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To be continued.

(To the Tune of "Bingo") 

__

Silly old Meredith had a fic, 

she wanted feedback dearly-oh! 

F-e-e-d- back, 

F-e-e-d- back, 

F-e-e-d- back, 

And she wanted feedback dearly-oh! 


	2. 4th of Babylon

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Future Games 2/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Somewhere, somewhen, someone was ringing the bells. She swung effortlessly on the ropes, bending her lean body to slip between the tall, crystalline orbs.

Pull, release, and the pampliest of sound ringing to the heavens. 

From the Tower, she could see Minbar all the way to the horizon; the water-fall city of Tuzanor and the quartz mountains beyond. Warrior caste flyers practiced formations in the dusky evening sky. There were fewer now, and most of them in poor shape, but she fulfilled her duty with quiet determination, remembering what little she had learned of Minbari history. She was a bizarre Quazimodo-- not a hunch back, not a monster, but a human woman with skin the color of sun-touched almonds and eyes darker than the ebony of shadow vessels. She swung eastward this time, loose robe clinging to her figure, and the highest-pitch notes began to rise. The bells were prayers, for salvation, for deliverance. She prayed too, with the chill evening wind in her long black hair, not knowing that she and the Minbari desired the same thing. The same person.

She continued to sound the bells.

Though they were running out of time (strange, since they were between time, in a place were time was stagnant, if that was possible), Susan could not help but avoid disturbing Jeffery Sinclair until necessary. Instead, she watched him; his face was far away, brown eyes somehow more bright and face somehow more deeply etched. At last, she heard the familiar hum of the auxiliary auto-grav systems as the White Star pulled up against the hull of Babylon 4.

"Jeff!" she said, reaching out a hand to pull just slightly on his brown Entil'Zha's robes. "Jeff-- we've got to get ready to go aboard."

"I...," Her former CO shook his head and looked at her for a moment as though se was completely unknown to him. "I'm sorry," he tried to smile, "I suppose the reality of time-travel is a bit more difficult to handle than the concept." In his mind, she sensed a vague after-image, and, though she wasn't trying to scan him, the picture became clear anyway. She thought for a moment that the tacion field might have boosted her ability, but she still felt guilty for the invasion of privacy. Bells-- he had heard their distant ringing like the dream you wake up from and try so desperately to fall back into once more. That, and a silhouette against (what was to her) an unfamiliar sky. Throwing him a questioning glance, Susan wondered if he had at all felt the intrusion, but there was nothing in his expression save determination.

"Entil'Zha," Marcus hurried to catch up with them in the corridor, "There's been a delay. We tried burning through the hull of B4, but we picked a damn inconvenient spot. Hit some type of shielding for the maintenance tubes, or something."

"Is anyone aware of our presence?" Jeff asked as the Ranger fell into step beside Ivanova.

"No-- but Lennier says it'll take ten to twenty minutes," Marcus moved his hands to show the time they didn't have, "to fix the burners before we can make another try."

"Try going down two levels and breaching there," Susan suggested, "Babylon 4 is bigger than B5, but I think they were based off the same plans. If you go through the unfinished Red Sector, you shouldn't run into any trouble."

"Thanks, I'll get on that," Marcus grinned, before his face became a quick mask and he looked towards Sinclair. "Entil'Zha--"

"Just follow Ivanova's recommendation," Jeff's tone was harsh, "She *is* God, after all." The last bit was thrown in lightly, as if to reassure them. Susan groaned and shook her head.

"Smart-ass!" she called after him as he stalked towards the bridge.

Marcus gave her an admiring look, "You're God?"

"Shut up," she muttered with good nature, "Why is it everything I say comes back to haunt me?"

"Those whom the gods love they sorely try," he murmured in return, eyes resting on the empty hall before them. "He's hiding something."

"Damn right, he is," Susan pursed her lips and pulled her uniform jacket more closely about her, "Just wish I knew what it was. He's nervous, and it's making *me* nervous." She sensed, rather than saw, Marcus reach a hand out towards her-- her gaze was as quick and as deadly as a summer thunderstorm.

"Ah, yes," he shifted on his feet, clasping his hands behind his back, "You wouldn't happen to have some pain killers on you, would you? Damn time travel is playing hell with my brain."

"You, too, huh?" she whispered, acutely aware of their pact of silence on the matter.

"You're blocking so hard its giving me a head ache," he said, and the concern in his voice seemed to flow over her.

Quick, like the crack of a whip, "Don't you have a hull breech to over-see?"

"Yeah," he said, eyes pleading with her to smile, "Thank God for the Red Sector tip."

He had already turned his back when she got the punch-line-- she gave him a good whack on the shoulder and a flustered smile.

"Very cute, Cole!"

Later, as they moved the equipment into the station, Susan constructed her walls of steel girders, stubborn and impossible to shake. Marcus stood in the tube-way connecting the White Star to the station, handing crated up to her, and occasionally their hands would touch-- not purposefully, but in such a way that made him avert his gaze and her clench her hands into fists. She blocked with a ferocity that began to wear on her, but she could not run the risk of letting him in or, worse, delving into his mind. Part of her wondered why she was so afraid.

There came a crash, sounding down the crawlway.

"Zathras," Susan rolled her eyes.

"I should think so," Marcus returned, handing up another box. Each container seemed filled with endless new technology, strange power-cells and some objects that looked more like decoration than anything useful. "He's an odd little bugger, isn't he?"

"Well, you would know," she gently knocked her fist against the side of his head, "Never thought I'd meet anyone crazier than you."

Marcus leaned over, resting his chin in his hands, "Should I take that as a compliment?" 

"Take it as I'm *twice* as annoyed dealing with two lunatics instead of the usual one," she smiled, tight-lipped.

"Why, Commander," he touched his hand briefly over his heart, "We're all mad here." He popped back down the ladder for a moment and came up with another crate. "This is the last one."

"That's good," she set it a top the others and moved so he could climb out, "Who knew time travel required this much baggage?"

He stretched as soon as he was clear of the ladder, "Don't suppose there are any carry on regulations."

"Hell, we'd better hope n--" Susan trailed off as Zathras turned the corner and came lopping down the hallway faster than she would have judged him capable of. The raccoon-like humanoid make various clicking noises, managing to sound very nervous. 

"It is came!" he insisted, brushing past Ivanova in his hurry to get to the crates, "must make sure equipment is not damaged. Still need fixing Captain's stabilizer. It is forever bad for Zathras. Very temperamental, yes."

Susan exchanged looks with the Ranger, "Zathras..."

"Grab hold for something!" the creature advised, "approaching difficult part of rift."

"Bloody hell," Marcus muttered, "This is going to get bumpy." His words seemed to cue the turbulence. The world began to turn on itself, the very floor beneath their feet unreal. Marcus tumbled towards the deck as the air seemed to suffuse with an intangible force-- Susan didn't think about it, she simply reached out to grab him. She was startled and her blocks were weak from so much exertion on her part.

Mostly, it happened because he wanted her to come inside. 

She was a thousand tiny stars loosened by gravity, falling farther and father away from each other. Her very body seemed to dissolve, and Susan was sure she was feeling the same pain Sheridan had when he'd been pulled through the rift. A dizzying cascade of herself, tumbling, waiting to hit bottom. 

= = = = = 

When she woke, the ground was firm and cold beneath her-- dirt, damp and smelling of the lightly passed autumn. She stretched her body out for a moment, sure that all her energy had been drained away by the (falling up? rising down?). The sky above seemed yellow and close, like she could reach up and touch it; she could have laid and let the soil devour her. 

Then a cry came, low and carried by the chill air, and she was running without even meaning to.

'Marcus.'

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

(To the tune of "Jingle Bells")

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Oh, feedback, oh feedback,

Does make my heart soar,

I'd really like to hear from you,

If my story is not a bore, yeah!

Oh, feedback, oh feedback,

Would really make my day,

Oh I really want to hear,

What you have to say!


	3. Death My Destination

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AUTHOR'S NOTES: Oish, been a while, ne? Well, I'm not exactly the fastest writer in the world. *embarrassed look* I hope you'll forgive me for taking so long! Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to send feedback-- you deserve tons of virtual chocolate. ^_~

Wow I don't have much to say this time. How scary!

~Meredith 

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Future Games 3/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

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Marcus felt snow under his hands, so strange and alien that he also cried out. As it was, he fell from his on the window sill and managed to land on the chill tile bathroom floor in a crouch, with one slightly sore hand keeping him balanced. Moments passed as he held himself completely still, taking in his surroundings despite his disorientation. Light came in-- white through the window from the city, and yellow from under the closed door. The rest of the room was dim and icy; cups and dishes of every shape, size and color clustered around the old-fashioned claw-foot bath-tub directly opposite the window. One slim, tender arm lolled on the edge of the tub, hand gracefully angled down with single drop of water falling every-so-often from one of the finger tips. It was slow-motion-- still-life in shades of purple and blue. 

"It is about time you got here," the voice was young, thickly accented and maybe a little drowsy, but he recognized it never the less. Drawing a deep breath, Marcus rose to his feet and approached the bath tub as though it was a throne. Susan Ivanova-- young, impossibly pixyish, lay in the white marble basin. There was no water, instead just a few blankets and a pillow to make the bathtub into a type of bed. She lay with her head tilted back against the curved side, long legs thrown haphazardly tangled over the opposite edge; her eyes were just that same tourmaline blue he knew so well. Watching him without turning her head, she held her lips apart and breathed out, watching her breath became a faint mist as it left her mouth. Her chest, clad in a sky-blue sailor-style uniform shirt, rose faintly every now and then-- it seemed as though she was reminding herself to breathe. With her hair curled ever so slightly and chopped off without mercy at her jaw, she looked charmingly boyish. Her words seemed to drop like crystals in the cold air, "Are you Death?"

He saw that it was not water dripping from her fingers, but blood.

He came to her side and said her name, unable to keep the horror out of his voice. Her hand flitted away when he tried to take it-- she watched with disinterest as her own blood splashed on her skirt and spread there, turning light blue to purple. 

"Susan," he said again, mind numb. 

"You are at the right address," she smiled, "I am Susan."

"Why--" seemed to be he only word he could formulate, reaching for her hand again. This time, she allowed him to take it; he turned it over and focused himself on inspecting the depth of the cut on her wrist.

"I was just-- letting it out a little, do you know?" she searched his face for understanding, but he could give her none. His grip on her hand tightened, as if he could somehow delay her physically; he had never known such fear. She smiled, strangely, "I collect it in the cups," she nodded towards the dishes, and he saw also that they were stained, or filled with her life-fluid. "I take it to my," she spat the word, "therapist. He does love that. Last week, he said I had border line personality disorder. This week, he will have to choose between multiple-personalities and acute schizophrenia. He is running out of diagnosis."

Wetting his lips, Marcus tried to find words, any words, "Please, don't..."

"It is all right," she raised her hand to touch his cheek. Some of her blood ran to catch in his beard-- he wanted nothing more than it meticulously collect it, every droplet, every cupful, and return it to her. Susan's blood, he realized with a turn of his stomach. Death by withering. "This time, though, I think I shall just go," she continued, "I would like to see, really-- and here you are." Her smile was, sleepy, lazy and almost fond. It was like the word 'sweetheart' on his tongue; her childish affection was strange, and somehow comforting. 

Almost embarrassed, he looked at his hands, and saw the red spreading on them like flowers.

"I can't let you die!" he said with sudden ferocity, and she recoiled as though he had betrayed her.

"Why not?" she sounded indignant, as though he'd said she wasn't good enough to perish and leave her body a pile of bones. Marcus turned away from her, searching through the medicine cabinet with clumsy, desperate hands. Finally, he raked the bottles and boxes into his arms and spilled them out on the floor near the bath tub. Carefully, he set the full cup and half-empty saucer as far away as possible.

"Give me your hand," he insisted. 

"No," she cradled her hands towards her heart. For a moment, he thought of before (or is that after?) when she had accused him of coming to Babylon 5 to hurt her, and she had also held her hands away. The action seemed a mannerism. "Why should you stop me? I am already dead-- a doll with no heart. The other girls call me the ice princess. They are very right."

"Why?" he asked again, and this time she seemed to understand his meaning.

"Because!" she shook with her anger, "I'd rather die by my own hand than be caught! They won't take me. I'll kick and scream," she seemed to be threatening the long shadows clustered around them, "I'll bite. I can't keep on dodging-- I'm getting tired and..." Insanely, he realized she was crying, and it humbled him, "and there is no one to hold me here! I will go where Mama is. When they took her away, she was just fading: not dead yet. She reached out to me. I saw a... city," the memory seemed to bring light to her face, "the streets were strange and I could read none of the signs. I'm going there to look for her." She reached for him, took one of his hands in her two small ones. The grip was just as strong and steel as he had ever known her. "Will you take me there?"

He shook his head; mutely, violently. "Susan, I can't... I *won't* let you do this."

"Why NOT?" she stressed again, then hurried her words with eager reassurance, "Don't worry-- I am all alone in this country. My room mate doesn't even like me, which is why I sleep in here. No one will miss me. We can leave right now." She sounded like a child (he had to remind himself that she *was*) playing a game.

"I have sworn to protect you," he admitted softly, "even from yourself."

"Protect me?" her voice reached an almost wail, "protect me from *them*! That is what I need."

"If you die," he tried another track, "they win." She curled up into a ball in the corner of the tub, watching him with eyes that glittered.

"There's another Psi test next week," she admitted, "Everytime, I am so afraid I will be caught... I *smell* of the fear, I know it. One day, my luck is going to run out."

"It won't," he said, keeping the image of her-- strong at the helm of the White Star-- firmly in his mind. He could not stand to extinguish the small flare of hope that shadowed across her expression. 

Even when it occurred to him that he might well be lying.

===============================================

[to the tune of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game"]

__

"Please give me some feed-back,

that is what I desire,

I'll love you forever if only you'd say,

good or bad, yes or no, yay or nay.

Yes, I really really like feedback,

and I am not ashamed,

cause it's F-E-E-D and back,

yes, that's he name of the game."


End file.
